


A Seat at the Round Table

by Mithen



Category: DCU - Comicverse, Demon Knights
Genre: Arthurian, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-21 23:48:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sir Ystin arrives in Camelot and, after long travails, proves himself to King Arthur and the court.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Seat at the Round Table

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alliterate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alliterate/gifts).



> Ystin is the best! I've never read Morrison's _Seven Soldiers of Victory_ , and this probably contradicts his Shining Knight's beginnings, but I believe "our" Shining Knight is a slightly different character, so I'm hoping you don't mind, dear recipient...

When Ystin of Elfael rode into Camelot on his dappled stallion and demanded to see the King, he was met by Sir Cai, the Seneschal of Camelot. Sir Cai had inkblots on his nose and fingers and carried a handful of forms.

"I would serve King Arthur," Ystin said, looking down at him.

"Well now," Cai said, nibbling at his pen and leaving a fresh blot at the corner of his mouth. "I'm afraid we have no vacancies at the Round Table at this precise moment."

Ystin stared. In all his plans and dreams, he had never imagined something so banal thwarting him. "Surely the King could use my service?"

"No vacancies until a knight dies," Cai said, waving his pen. "I suppose you could challenge one of them to a duel, that should solve the problem...one way or the other," he added.

Ystin flushed. "I will not prove myself by slaying one of Arthur's knights!"

Cai was rummaging through his paperwork, his mind clearly elsewhere. "Then good day, sir."

"Wait!" At Ystin's cry Cai stopped and blinked up at him. "Give me _some_ task. Surely I can be useful in some way."

"Well, now that you mention it..."

*******

Ystin cursed his luck again as he scoured a pot. To have come all this way just to be assigned menial work in the kitchens--it galled his spirit almost beyond bearing. But he had swallowed his complaints and told himself that this was valuable training in humility.

He didn't feel humble.

But he threw himself into the work, and lifting the heavy iron pots put extra sinew into his arms, and running back and forth from the kitchens to the tables honed his speed. The other kitchen churls laughed at his dedication--showing up before dawn, working until ready to drop of exhaustion. They laughed at other things too, until Ystin trounced five of them in a fair fight behind the stables and sent them bawling to their mothers with bloody noses. 

The work was surprisingly hard, but it was worth it entirely for the times when he could serve the Knights as they feasted. He brought meat to Bedivere, bread to Gawain--and one time, he even was able to serve the King himself wine. As he handed the heavy goblet to the King, their fingers brushed, and for a dizzying moment Ystin saw himself--older, clad in golden mail--kneeling to present a simple wooden chalice to his Lord. It brimmed with light, and all was silent with joy--

He came to himself with a gasp, surprised and relieved that he hadn't spilled the wine on the King's robes. He ducked his head and fled the room, grateful that the King hadn't noticed his lapse.

 _The visions continue,_ he thought to himself later, elbow deep in soapy water. _What do they mean? Surely not that I am destined to swill in dishwater all my life!_

But the vision was gone once more, and with it his certainty. Ystin gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to throw the plate he was washing across the room.

"Oh, is Sir Beaumains in a foul mood?" The voice of Gwyn, one of the serving lads, broke in on his reverie, and Ystin dropped the plate into the water to swing around warily. They'd never dared to assault him since that day behind the stables, but it was still poor strategy to have your hands full when facing an enemy. "Does the water roughen his tender fingers?"

Ystin wiped his hands dry, keeping his lip lifted in disdain, though he hated their nickname for him with a white-hot passion. "Better beautiful hands than hands that reek of dung," he sneered. "Try washing them sometime."

Gwyn's beefy face darkened under his shock of white-blond hair, and he was opening his mouth to say something--from his expression, something that would earn him a severe pummelling--when the kitchen door burst open. From beyond it came sounds of screaming and a terrible eldritch shrieking. "Flee!" cried the serving boy, panic in his voice, "Morgaine the Fey has sent her wyverns to slay us all!"

Chaos broke out in the kitchen; amid the trampling mob, Ystin seized a cleaver and a pot lid and charged out into the banquet hall.

He found a terrible battle raging there. Five azure wyverns--smaller than dragons, but deadly, with acid breath and snapping teeth--were flying around the room, spitting gouts of ichor. The Knights had closed ranks to protect their King from the assault, and Ystin started to fight his way to his Lord's side. He dodged the swooping wings of one of the wyverns, feeling them graze the side of his head as he rolled away. Another drake dove at him and he deflected the attack with his pot-lid, the impact numbing his arm immediately. He staggered forward--he was almost to the King!

Then he heard the scream from behind him. One of the wyverns had landed on a churl, bringing him down like an eagle stoops on a sheep. It coiled its long neck and bared its fangs, and Ystin recognized the body below it as Gwyn's.

He was across the room with a leap, forcing his numb arm to lift and batter the wyvern with the pot-lid, feinting at it with his cleaver, then reversing his stroke. He felt a berserker yell ripping from his lungs as he faced down the maw of the wyvern and stabbed at its throat with all his strength.

Scalding blood spattered his face, and he heard himself laughing as his foe died, exalted by the joy of battle. Gwyn was staring up at him, his mouth slack and wide, and Ystin looked around for more enemies to fight, realizing only gradually that the wyverns were all dead and the room was falling silent once more.

He stood, his sides heaving with exhaustion and exhilaration, blood dripping from his knife.

And into the silence, King Arthur pushed past his knights and strode up to Ystin.

"You," he said, and Ystin felt a tremor start inside him, "You could have defended me from the wyverns, but you did not."

"No, my Lord," whispered Ystin.

"You chose instead to defend this kitchen churl."

Ystin set his chin and looked up at the King. "Yes, my Lord."

"A peasant boy who has done nothing but torment you since you arrived in Camelot?"

In the echoing silence, painfully aware that he was wielding a pot-lid and a kitchen knife, Ystin had no time to wonder how the King knew about the last months. "My Lord," he said angrily, "This is a child of Camelot, and deserves to be protected as much as any noble in the land."

A hissed intake of breath from the people around him told him he had gone too far. The King's eyes were blazing, and Ystin dropped his gaze before them.

 _"Kneel,"_ said King Arthur, and there was so much power in his words that Ystin dropped to his knees in the blood and ichor without a thought. He waited for the storm to break, his shoulders clenched against the inevitable denunciation--then started as something lightly touched one shoulder, then the other.

"Rise, Sir Ystin of the Round Table," said Arthur. "He who has this day proved his bravery--and more important, his worth."

"My Lord," breathed Ystin, feeling his eyes fill with tears, unashamed. 

"Cai!" called Arthur, gesturing to his foster-brother. "Sir Ystin will need a sword and armor. Something light and flexible, I believe--perhaps the golden mail with the black eagle on it?"

"That's--you mean--your armor from when you were a boy, my Lord?" Cai stammered.

Arthur frowned. "Are you implying my armor is too old to be suitable?" As Cai gawped at him, he slapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Fetch it up here, brother." He turned to Ystin. "It has seen no use for some time, Sir Ystin, but I trust it will serve you well." He looked around the debris-strewn room. "Now, to find this young man a seat at our table."

"Ah," said Cai, "As to that, we lost no knights in the wyvern assault--"

"--Thank the gods," breathed Ystin, and Arthur shot him a quick smile.

"--Which means there is still no vacancy at the Round Table," Cai finished triumphantly.

"By the rood," swore the King, "That is a small thing." Striding to the wall, he seized one of the chairs placed there for guests and observers. Pushing two chairs at the Round Table closer together, he planted the new chair firmly at his right hand. "Now there is a vacancy," he explained to Cai. "Sir Ystin," he said, "Would you join us, please, as we discuss responses to this latest act of treachery from my sister?"

"May I take your...weaponry, sir?" Ystin turned to see Gwyn at his shoulder, his head bowed, reaching out. Ystin looked at him sharply, but there was nothing in Gwyn's eyes but respect as Ystin handed over the pot-lid and cleaver. "Bless you, sir," Gwyn mumbled, tugging at his forelock, and backed away.

Ystin turned to face the Round Table. The knights looked back at him--some doubtfully, others with speculation, a few with approval. It would be a challenge to win them over.

But as King Arthur gestured for him to take his place at the war council, Sir Ystin, Knight of Camelot, knew he was up to any challenge.


End file.
